


The Loveseat

by abstractconcept



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anthropomorphic, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex, and a little quill-play., dirty talk mentioning B&D
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4242153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry buys a second-hand sofa and gets more than he <i>ever</i> anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=_auberginedream)[_auberginedream](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=_auberginedream) for [Longlivenmarry](http://community.livejournal.com/livelongnmarry/profile).

  
_**Fic: The Loveseat**_  
**Title:** The Loveseat **Rating:** NC-17  
**Pairing:** Snarry, mentions of one-sided, past Snape/Lucius, and a teeny bit of Harry/Draco.  
**Highlight for Warnings:** * Oral sex, public sex, dirty talk mentioning B&D, and a little quill-play. *  
**Disclaimer:** Belongs to J.K. Rowling.  
**Notes:** Written for [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=_auberginedream)[**_auberginedream**](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=_auberginedream) for [Longlivenmarry](http://community.livejournal.com/livelongnmarry/profile).  
**Illustration by:** [](http://twilightsorcery.insanejournal.com/profile)[](http://twilightsorcery.insanejournal.com/)**twilightsorcery** (largish picture behind the cut)  
**Word Count** : ~17,000  
**Betas and Builders:** Much thanks to [](http://adele-sparks.insanejournal.com/profile)[**adele_sparks**](http://adele-sparks.insanejournal.com/) for the inspiration, hand-holding and edits, as well as the help from [](http://dacro.insanejournal.com/profile)[**dacro**](http://dacro.insanejournal.com/) , and [](http://joanwilder.insanejournal.com/profile)[**joanwilder**](http://joanwilder.insanejournal.com/) and [](http://thesewarmstars.insanejournal.com/profile)[](http://thesewarmstars.insanejournal.com/)**thesewarmstars**.  
**Summary:** Harry buys a second-hand sofa and gets more than he _ever_ anticipated. 

  


**The Loveseat**

The first thing Harry did when he finished moving in to his new flat was have a celebratory drink. And then another. And then another. It was nice, being able to have more than one drink and not get scolded or nagged or told he was being a bad influence. He leaned back and kicked his feet up on the table, reading the paper. There was Lucius Malfoy’s obituary, going on about what a wonderful benefactor to many causes and what a great man he was. Harry wondered if anyone even half believed it.

He shook his head and tried to get comfortable. There was something scratching his wrist, and he looked down to see a small scrap of paper protruding from between the arm and cushion of the sofa.

“Huh,” he said, and read it. It looked like part of a larger letter—something that someone had ripped up. Only part of it was legible.

_I know it’s wrong and I shouldn’t tell you this, but I find you a very attractive man. We’re much too different and I’d never—_

Harry frowned and rummaged around, but that was all there was. Kind of interesting. He’d bought the sofa used at an antique store, and he wondered what it had witnessed.

Harry turned in his seat; the sofa had two mother-of-pearl insets perched at the top of the frame, and, when the light hit them right, they twinkled just like Dumbledore’s eyes. Harry got a funny feeling the thing was laughing at him.

“Whatever,” he muttered, and looked back at the note. He smiled a little as his imagination ran riot. It was almost like the sofa had written him a love letter. “We _are_ too different,” he said aloud. “But you’ve got nice stitching and your fabric is a lovely shade of gold,” he added with a laugh. “I’m afraid the fact of the matter is, you’re just too short for me. I hope we can still be friends.” Harry trailed off into sort of hysterical laughter. “It _would_ be the most action I’ve got in months,” he admitted.

Finally he decided he’d had enough to drink and put the cap back on the bottle. “Enough of this nonsense,” he said out loud. “Time for bed.”

He tossed the bit of paper in the trash bin as he passed and completely forgot about it.

oOoOoOo

Harry fiddled with his quill and eyed the handsome, leather-bound journal warily. It had been a gift from Hermione—a housewarming gift. Ron had got him a large plant that ate insects by gassing them and flinging out tendrils to catch them. It was sort of wicked, but sort of creepy as well. Hermione’s gift was just . . . well, Hermione.

Harry appreciated the thought, really. It was just something much closer to a gift Hermione would like than a gift _Harry_ would like. Still, it was kind of her, and right about now he would do just about _anything_ to relieve his boredom.

So he started to write.

 _I never expected to be lonely,_ he scrawled. _I never expected to be bored. I never knew it would end like this, you know? I can’t believe it’s over. What am I going to do now?_

Harry stared at the paper, feeling suddenly stupid. What the hell was he doing, scribbling down all his feelings like some pathetic, emotional fourteen year old girl?

A great shudder of embarrassment and anger jolted up Harry’s spine and he ripped the page out, leaving the side near the crease of the book all ragged.

“Stupid,” he said aloud. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Crumpling the paper up, he tossed it aside and got to his feet. To hell with this moping. He was going to get takeout, curry, maybe, and when he was done, things would somehow be better. He was sure of it.

oOoOoOo

Harry didn’t think about what he’d written again for a few days.

Saturday morning he got up late and made himself a bowl of cereal. He liked cereal. Cereal was easy. Only he didn’t have a lot of furniture in his flat so he ended up carrying it over to the sofa and coffee table he’d purchased only a few weeks earlier and sat down to eat.

And then he stood up again, feeling around under his bum for whatever the weird lumpy thing was so he could finally sit and eat in peace.

He’d sat on something—a folded-up piece of parchment. Frowning, he un-creased it and looked the thing over. He read the bit of paper, then read it again. Harry’s mouth fell open and he dropped his spoon in the cereal bowl and forgot its existence.

 _Dear God,_ it read, _why do you bedevil me now? There’s little enough I can do for you and in any case, I have my own problems. I suppose they’re not as bad as being dead, but it’s a damn close race some days. Why can’t the dead shut up? Whatever happened to the proverbial peace of the grave? Is this some sort of punishment? Some sort of vile torture? Or is this because of the bottle? Am I going mad? Damn you man, damn your lofty ambitions and your ill choices and especially your restless, obnoxious soul! Go away and find someone else’s belongings to haunt!_

Harry shook his head. What the hell was all that about? Who the _fuck_ had been in his flat, writing bizarre bollocks like _this?_ Harry looked around wildly, snatching up his wand and brandishing it at the shadowy corners of his flat until he realized he was flourishing his spoon, rather than his wand. He swallowed a couple of times. He felt a chill when he remembered that he’d gone through the couch _thoroughly_ just a couple of days ago.

“Hello?” he called out, voice creaky. “Anyone here? Anyone around?” Then he felt stupid. Of _course_ no one had broken into his flat. The parchment was probably nothing. It was probably some leftover packing paper he’d stuffed in a box. There’d been a lot of it and it was still turning up, and a few of the boxes hadn’t even been opened yet though he’d been in the flat for a few weeks.

Harry sat down, still quivering a little from frayed nerves. There was no one here. There was never anyone here. Still, he didn’t feel much like food anymore. Leaving both the weird note and the half-full bowl of cereal on the coffee table, Harry went to get his cloak and find out what Ron was up to today. Maybe that would take his mind off of things.

oOoOoOo

Harry tried to forget the bit of paper—tried and tried—but he couldn’t. For one thing, there was little else in his life to take his mind off of things. For another thing, he was starting to have nightmares. What if the parchment was from Voldemort? It didn’t really sound like Voldemort, but he’d done this sort of thing before and fooled Ginny, so maybe it was just possible.

Or maybe it was someone else.

Harry wasn’t sure what made him do it. Maybe it was the nightmares. Surely it was the nightmares. He’d been dreaming of the dead—dozens of them, marching up and down the walls—when he sat bolt upright, sweating profusely.

He went to get a glass of milk and curled up on the little sofa, hoping it would help. Maybe he could sleep there, even though it was old-fashioned and pretty uncomfortable.

The bit of folded parchment was still resting innocuously on the coffee table, and on impulse Harry snatched it up and read it again and again. Who had written it?

And before he knew it, he’d hunted down a quill and turned the thing over and away he went. Only he couldn’t decide what to say—he was still drowsy and his nightmares were spinning round and round his head, so he decided to address the more mysterious bits of the letter and leave the rest for later.

 _Are you a ghost? Did I—did I kill you? Except I only ever killed one person that I ever knew of and I didn’t mean to. Well, I did, but I didn’t want to. I just had to. I couldn’t help it. No one else—look, this is crazy. I’m sitting here in the middle of the damned night writing to someone who obviously doesn’t even fucking exist. Why did you write me? Why? What torment? Are you haunting me? What bottle? A potions bottle? And_ —here the writing got messy as Harry’s hand convulsed with anger— _you leave_ me _alone. What did I ever do to_ you, _anyway? What the fuck did I ever do to deserve_ any _of this?_

He stared at the paper for a long time, but nothing happened. He even curled up on the sofa, eyes blearily checking the words now and then to make sure they hadn’t changed or disappeared, but they meekly sat there just as he’d written them, and eventually he fell asleep.

oOoOoOo

The next morning, Harry woke up and found something sticking out from between the cushions.

 _It’s your fault,_ the new parchment said in somewhat erratic handwriting. _It’s_ your _fault. What did you do to deserve this? I’m not sure if I’m capable of laughing as scathingly as that deserves. Every choice you made led you closer to the end. No! I know what you’re going to say; I made the same choices, I merely played both ends against the middle a little better. Well, we both made it through_ that _in any case. I’m sure it’s other things that led you to limbo, or wherever the hell you currently are. You are—_ were, _damn me—a downright evil son of the devil, and I tip my hat to you and wish you well. Are there demons there? Did he come and claim you for his own, Satan, if he exists? I always wondered. Damn, another bottle gone. Do you know, I almost miss you. You were practically worse than Satan, and I actually miss you. Who would have guessed? Well, I hope you enjoy those prodding pitchforks, you miserable bastard._

The last line sort of petered out, and Harry felt a horrible chill up his back. Who the _hell_ were these notes coming from? He dug through the sofa, but couldn’t find another. It was coming from the sofa; that he was sure of. The first one had turned up there and so had the second, and the third had appeared from between the cushions when Harry was asleep! No one could have got past him, let alone his wards.

Grabbing his coat, he dashed out the door and headed to the Ministry.

A quarter of an hour later, he made it to Ron’s desk, sweaty and out of breath. “I think I need to exorcise my sofa,” he gasped.

Ron looked up from his paperwork, astonished. “Are its legs getting a bit chubby or something?” he asked carefully.

“No, Ron!” Harry groaned. He collapsed in a seat across from his friend. He had to be careful because Ron didn’t have a private office, so Harry leant forward and tried to talk without moving his lips very much. “I think my sofa’s been sending me letters,” he muttered.

Now Ron looked concerned. “Oh. Er . . . oh. Really?” he said, sounding desperately casual. “What sort of letters? Like, like, buy genuine wood polish, the other gets in my grain and itches, sort of thing?”

“Ron! This is serious! I fell asleep last night and this morning there was a letter between the cushions and it said it hoped Satan buggered me with a pitchfork or something.”

“Sounds like you need to be treating your furniture with a bit more TLC, mate,” Ron said, staring.

“It _isn’t funny!_ My CHAIR HAS GONE MAD!” Harry shouted.

Ron ducked down in his seat, face flushed red. “That’s not the only thing,” he grumbled. “D’you mind keeping it down?”

Harry glanced around guiltily. All he needed was Rita Skeeter or someone to hear about this. “My chair is evil,” he said in a somewhat quieter voice. “First it starting writing me love notes. I reckon I shouldn’t have rejected it. I must’ve made it angry. I think it might want to kill me,” he added sombrely.

Ron looked as though he really didn’t know what to say to this. “How?” he finally managed. “Smother you with its cushions? Send a spring up your bum? They’re not really well equipped for homicide,” he pointed out.

“This is true,” Harry allowed, feeling a little calmer. “I’m just a bit nervous that it’s going to try to sidle into my bedroom in the middle of the night and off me.”

“With _what?_ ” Ron said relentlessly. “Merlin, Harry, it’s a _sofa,_ not a guillotine!”

“It has arms!” Harry insisted. “It has _arms!_ And feet in the shape of claws! It could . . . it could disembowel me or something.”

“Have you been watching scary old Muggle flicks on the telly again?” Ron asked shrewdly.

“It’s not the _same,_ Ron!” Harry grated. “I mean it, this thing scares the piss out of me. It’s gone _off._ It’s going to try to murder me in my sleep, I just know it.”

“Sleep with your bedroom door shut then, that’s my advice,” Ron said.

“Fat lot of help you are,” Harry grumbled.

But he took the advice anyway. And he shoved another chair under his doorknob that night—a chair that hadn’t been writing him crazy letters.

oOoOoOo

_Look, I don’t know who you are or what you want or why you’re going on about pitchforks. I’ve never met Satan and I’ve never seen a pitchfork at all. I wasn’t going to write you again, but I feel weird. I hate unfinished business. Are you someone I know? Why do you keep going on about me being dead? I’m not, you know. I’ve pinched myself. Not that it means I’m not dead, but it means I don’t think that I’m dreaming. Are you someone from a different time? I feel like I’m going mad. You are real, aren’t you? Aren’t you?_

Harry read his own letter again and had to swallow hard. He didn’t want to answer the strange letter, but it nagged at him like a tooth ready to fall out. He didn’t really want to but he’d rather get it over.

When he finished the missive, he tucked the parchment between the sofa cushions and went away quickly, hoping to forget the whole thing.

oOoOoOo

_Go to hell, you insufferable ghoul. You’re a figment of my imagination, do you hear? You’re not real. You’ve never been real._

For just a moment Harry had to fight off a sort of panic; wasn’t he real, then? How did you know for sure? But that was silly. That was existential paranoia. This was only happening because he wasn’t sleeping well.

 _You were my last link to my old life—you know that, don’t you? And here I am drinking myself to death and you’re probably living it up; no pitchforks_ indeed, _you ruddy old con. I imagine I must be from a different time. Before you’d died. Before you’d up and died. I expect that comes as something of a surprise, doesn’t it, my old chum? I watched them bury you, for Merlin’s sake. How you’re up and about and answering your correspondence with your usual flippant air I’m sure I don’t know. I stood at a discreet distance under Polyjuice and watched them lower you into the ground and shovel it over you. God, I should have stopped at that third glass of gin, but what’s the point? No one knows; no one cares. All I had left was you and you’re gone. I expect you’re one of those ghosts who don’t know the difference; your wife has moved on, you know. She has a lover. I feel inexplicably guilty telling you that, but if it helps you to move on and gets you the hell out of my life, I think it’s likely for the best._

_Torment me no more, you sneering blighter._

_Move towards the light._

Harry felt strangely sad. Everything was just possible, but he hoped it wasn’t so. Not that he didn’t wish Ginny all the best, but . . .

_Look here, you’ve got to be wrong, he wrote back. My wife, er, former wife, is a lovely person and I’m sure she’d wait a decent time after I’d died to start dating again._

He stuffed the note between the cushions without giving himself time to think, and up popped another one like some sort of bizarre tissue dispenser, only a minute or two later.

 _Ha! You hold onto that delusion, my friend. You were hardly cold before she took up with that old Egyptian. Claims he’s the son of royalty, so he outranked you and you_ know _how she is about powerful men._

Harry frowned hard, face burning. Ginny _did_ like powerful men; Harry couldn’t deny it. But she wasn’t a slut! It was only that he’d had such a hard time and couldn’t seem to get interested lately and—he took a deep breath. _Even if she was getting around there a bit at the end, there’s no call for that sort of thing! And—and shut up. You just shut your mouth! You keep your dismissive missives to yourself, mister, because I’m sick of hearing it!_

He jammed the letter between the cushions and shot to his feet. That was enough nonsense for one day, he told himself.

He’d sleep in his own bed tonight and ignore the haunted sofa. He was sure he’d be better off that way.

oOoOoOo

Harry gasped. It was after him! He never should have listened to Ron! He should have remembered the chair—the one that was on _his_ side! He should have wedged it up against the door again so the sofa couldn’t get him! God, why couldn’t he have NORMAL problems? Even fighting the Dark Lord had at least been straightforward—he wasn’t used to murderous furniture!

God, it had his leg _it had his leg!_ Its cushions were parting to swallow him whole! There, under the cushions, was a gaping red maw and large, jagged wooden teeth prickly with splinters!

Harry yelped, falling to the floor with a thump.

He opened his eyes to find he was nearly strangled by some sort of fabric—Merlin, was it trying to suffocate him? But then Harry realised he’d just got tangled in the bedclothes and had fallen out of bed. He’d been having nightmares again.

Rubbing his face and wiping the sweat away, Harry got shakily to his feet and groped for his glasses. Sunlight was pouring in through the window; he’d survived another night, safe from homicidal home furnishings.

He went and took a shower, still leaving his _loyal_ chair wedged up against the door—after patting it to make sure it was still firmly in place. “ _Good_ chair,” he muttered, and then decided he was probably going mad.

After his shower he quickly dried himself and dressed, then tiptoed out into the living room, where the sofa was huddled, looking deceptively meek.

“Ha!” Harry growled. “I know better!” Then, careful to keep his wand trained on it at all times, he edged out the door.

Feeling a bit better, if still slightly clammy, he went to pick his kids up and take them out to eat. Maybe some nice, normal family interaction would get his mind off things.

oOoOoOo

Harry cut Albus Severus’ toast into soldiers just the way the boy liked them. He didn’t get to see the kids often enough, and he knew he tried a bit too hard, but he really missed them. “Die, verminous villain!” Albus Severus growled. He stabbed his toast with his knife and a squirt of marmalade dripped onto his plate. “Look, it’s bleeding,” he said, pleased.

“That’s _vile_ ,” Lily complained. “Dad, tell him not to do that!”

“Besides, it’s totally embarrassing. Stop acting like a little kid!” James said.

“Leave him alone,” Harry said heavily as Albus Severus squirmed and glared at his siblings. “And stop playing with your food,” he added.

Albus Severus shrugged and ate his toast, starting with the head and making his way down. “Mum is a better cook,” he grumbled.

Harry’s frown thinned. “She’s not here, and it’s fun to eat out sometimes.”

“I like it,” Lily said loudly, supportive of her dad.

Harry ruffled her hair. “That’s my girl.”

Albus Severus pushed back his chair, and the shriek of wood nearly sent Harry diving for the floor. His son looked shocked. “Jeez, Dad, I was just going to the loo. You don’t have to go into orbit!”

“You know Dad doesn’t like loud noises,” James said knowingly. “It’s because of the war.”

It hadn’t been because of the war; the noise was just too . . . chair-ish for Harry’s tastes. But of course he couldn’t say so. “It’s nothing,” he insisted.

“You sure you’re all right?” Albus Severus said. “You look kind of pale.”

“I’ve been feeling a little under the weather,” Harry admitted. “Might see a Healer if I’m not feeling better soon.” All three kids looked relieved and Al ran off to use the toilet.

Harry found he was sweating a little. He pushed his sausage around on his plate, feeling no appetite. He should chop the damn chair into firewood, that’s what he should do. He should at least face the thing head on. After all, he wasn’t a coward.

Finally everyone had finished their breakfast and got ready to leave. “Ready to head home?” he said.

The kids all nodded. “What are you going to do today, Dad?” Lily asked.

“Nothing much,” he said casually. _I’m just going to go home and have a long talk with my sofa, that’s all._

oOoOoOo

“Look, things can’t go on this way. You’re my couch. You’re supposed to behave! You’re not supposed to be sending me weird letters from someone I don’t even know!” Harry said, pacing. He ran a hand through his hair, making it even wilder.

The couch did not comment.

“For Merlin’s sake, you’re a sofa, not a letterbox! You’re just supposed to sit there—and be sat _on!”_

Was it Harry’s imagination, or were the round, mother-of-pearl insets at the top even rounder and more innocent-looking than usual? Harry found he was breathing heavily.

“From now on, I expect you to act like a normal, non-mad piece of furniture. Do you understand?”

The couch said nothing, but continued to crouch.

“Good,” Harry said distractedly. “I’m glad we had this talk. I’m going to get a glass of scotch. You just stay there—and be couch-like!”

oOoOoOo

Harry stared at the script, flummoxed. There was yet another letter. Of _course_ there was. But at least he didn’t have to deal with it sober. Being drunk made the whole thing seem less bizarre.

_You know, I always suspected you were a homosexual._

Harry gulped. How did it _know?_ Who was _writing_ these things? Did they know they were writing to him?

After a long, wavering moment, he hunted down a quill and paper before he could change his mind. _I never told anyone,_ he scratched. _Never._

 _No,_ came the response. _You never did. I always thought it rather sad. And such a waste, really._

Harry sucked in a breath. The person writing claimed to be from another time—maybe a time after Harry had died. And Harry had never told anyone? But he didn’t _want_ to be in the closet for the rest of his life—that was a big part of the reason he’d left Ginny!

 _I’m going to tell people,_ he wrote back. _I am!_

_You’ll never. You haven’t got it in you._

_How dare you!_ Harry raged. _Who the hell do you think you are?_

 _I know you better than that, that’s all,_ the paper said.

Harry digested this for a while. _You keep saying that, but I’ve seen no evidence you really know me at all. Apart from the gay thing,_ he amended judiciously. _Do you really know who I am?_

 _Don’t be a blathering idiot! Of course I know who you are. We’ve only corresponded this way since our schooldays. And since the whole thing was your idea, you can’t possibly have forgotten who_ I _am. Of course, you may well have other correspondents. Hah! That would not surprise me a bit._

 _But I’ve never corresponded with_ anybody, Harry wrote back. _And I just bought this sofa. It’s an antique._

This time, there was a long, long wait before another note came back.

_You what?_

_I just bought this couch._

For some reason, this seemed to alarm Harry’s pen pal. _Who are you?_ it demanded.

 _Who are_ you? Harry shot back.

 _No one. I think we should end this immediately._ The handwriting was rather shaky.

Harry gaped. Suddenly he didn’t _want_ it to end. This was the first person he’d ever confessed his sexuality to—that is, if he were indeed writing to a person and not a piece of furniture that’d gone round the bend and somehow acquired the ability to write.

 _Wait!_ Harry scrawled so fast he could barely read his own handwriting. _You knew that I was gay. Are you gay, too?_

 _…Yes,_ the note came back, looking somehow reluctant.

 _We could—we could meet,_ Harry offered. _In person._

_I do not think that would be wise. I am somewhat reclusive and not inclined to trust other people._

_Oh,_ Harry wrote back. _I’ve enjoyed talking with you. I’ve been . . . rather lonely. You seem really smart. What do you look like?_ he asked curiously.

 _You would be sorely disappointed, I assure you,_ the next note read. _I am not prepossessing; indeed, I have several unfortunate aspects both in appearance and personality._

 _Your personality seems okay to me,_ Harry told the other man.

 _Higher praise was never given,_ the man responded. Harry laughed at its dry tone. _What do_ you _look like?_

 _Not much,_ Harry admitted. _Short. Near-sighted. Sort of scrawny, but I’m told I have nice eyes—and a nice arse._ The last was made up in the hopes that the man would take interest.

And he did.

 _What are you wearing?_ the next bit of paper read.

Harry felt his face heat up. _Just boxers,_ he lied casually. _Getting ready for bed._

_Indeed?_

_Yes. Just sprawled out on the couch with a glass of scotch and a fire in the fireplace. There’s room for two,_ Harry teased.

 _Not if you spread your legs wide enough,_ the return note suggested.

Harry felt his face flame right up to his hairline. Wow. This was . . . wow! No one had said things like this to him before. He sat there in shock, unable to think of what to write back. It would be a whole lot easier if he could see the bloke he was writing to. Or would it?

 _Have I embarrassed you?_ the next note said. _What a pity. I had the impression you were more adventurous than all that._

 _I’m not embarrassed,_ Harry insisted, though he really was. _Just surprised and—pleased. Are you . . ._ he paused and gulped a bit. _Are you spreading your legs, as well?_

 _I’ve no interest in spreading_ my _legs—only yours,_ came the breath-stealing reply.

Harry felt a twist of pleasure curl up his spine. So his pen pal was a top. A very toppy top. _Suits me,_ Harry scrawled back. _Suits me_ fine. After a moment he added, _But what_ else _would you like me to do?_

_You’re taking requests?_

_Absolutely._

There was a long wait before the next note, as if the writer had given his reply a lot of consideration. _First, I would like you to undress completely. Can you do that for me?_

With a great shudder of pleasure, Harry flung off his shirt, kicked off his shoes, shirked his jeans, yanked down his pants and wadded them up in a ball and flung them in a corner, elated that no one was there to rant about his messy habits. _Done and done!_ he wrote back.

 _Obedience is a trait close to my heart,_ the other writer responded. _Now lie back._

Harry did so, though he knew this would make writing a little difficult. After a moment of thought he scooted the table, with its little pot of ink, right up to the edge of the sofa and grabbed a book to use as a flat surface. Next? he wrote eagerly.

_Have you spread your legs?_

Harry hadn’t, but quickly did so, throwing one leg over the coffee table and the other over the back of the sofa. _Yes,_ he answered. _Though I still say there’s room for you if you’d like to join me._ He still felt this would be a little less awkward—and frightening—if he could see his mysterious lover’s face.

_Perhaps later. Though I must admit, I’d like to know what you look like just now, nude and sprawled out . . ._

Harry recognized his cue. _I’m on my back_ , he shot back. _One ankle is hooked over the back of the couch, the other flung wide, exposing me to the rest of the room . . ._

_Delicious. Were I there, I would touch you—lightly, at first. You’ve not done this before, after all. Have you?_

_No. Never._

_I shouldn’t want to frighten you. I’d be gentle—at first. Can you picture me in the doorway, looking down on you? I’d want to watch, at first._

_I’d love to_ be _watched._

_I’d like to see you touch yourself in places you’ve never dared. Will you touch yourself for me?_

_For you? Yes. Where do you want me to start?_ Harry asked, thinking it would probably not be his prick, already erect, but perhaps his chest or the silk of his thighs.

 _Your lips,_ came the surprising answer. _First the quill, my pet. Is it feathered? How softly can you graze it against your lips?_

Harry found he was doing as suggested without even thinking about it. _Too soft,_ he wrote back honestly. _I prefer a . . . less delicate touch. Look, are you sure you don’t want to do this yourself? It’d be more fun if it were more, um, interactive._ The truth was, Harry could have done this all on his own, and that was a bit frustrating, although having someone on the other end of a quill—or bit of paper—or whatever—was _something_ at least.

 _Forget the quill; use a finger,_ the man wrote back, ignoring his plea. _One finger, over your bottom lip. Now. Your lips are soft, aren’t they? Softer even than the pad of your fingertip? And what of your finger; does it need attention, too? I expect every inch of you is quivering with need. Press your finger into your mouth, then._

Harry sucked his finger shamelessly, eyes widening as he read on.

_Is it hot and wet? How I would love to make you wetter._

Harry felt his prick pulse at this.

 _More,_ he wrote back in a shaky hand.

_So soon? You are shameless. Very well then; your throat. Flutter your fingers down that column of silken flesh. Are you flushed? Do you feel heat creeping down your neck?_

_Yes. I do._

_Lower. Touch your collarbone. Caress your shoulder. I would plant a kiss there, softly. Lower still. Have you ever played with your nipples?_

Harry squirmed. _No._

_Touch them. They’re very sensitive, aren’t they? Slip a fingernail over one; does it harden? Flick a fingertip back and forth. Roll it between your thumb and forefinger. Isn’t that exquisite? I can picture you now, head thrown back, eyes glassy, fingering your own pebbled flesh._

_God, yes,_ Harry managed to scribble. _What else?_

 _Take your quill,_ the note said, the ink smeared. _Clean the tip. Touch the feather to your belly, light strokes up and down._

Harry’s stomach twitched and tightened as he obeyed. _That feels good._

_Good. Now circle your prick with the feather, spiralling inward. You’re close, aren’t you?_

_In more ways than one. Fuck. Oh, fuck, yes,_ Harry answered. One hand went down to touch his balls, to fist his prick. He was over-stimulated, too eager to wait. His glasses slipped down his sweaty nose and he shoved them back up. They were crooked, but that hardly mattered; he could see through them well enough to read, anyway.

_You’ve moved to the head of your prick, haven’t you? It’s terribly sensitive, isn’t it? I can imagine you panting, sweaty and moaning. Now, just the tip of the feather, the very tip—dip it in, ever so gently._

Harry wanted to write something pithy and poetic about the rush coursing through him, the heat and the sizzle in his belly, but instead all he could manage were chicken scratches which, if looked at from the right angle, might possibly spell _IHO8gdsN,_ and some rather more indecipherable characters that he hoped might be taken as ancient cuneiform or something, instead of the spasm of blind orgasm. Harry couldn’t help it; he came, body arching up into the air.

 _Oh, my_ God. _I’ve never felt anything like that, he wrote. I think I’m in love._

_Do not bring senseless emotion into it; good grief, what a mood-killer._

_Sorry. What would turn you on, then? What would you want me to do? Don’t you want to be touched?_

There was another long, thoughtful pause. _I would like to see you on your knees, between my thighs. I would enjoy carding my fingers through your hair as your head and eyes lowered submissively. Would you like that?_

_You want me to suck you. You want me to lick up the underside of your cock, don’t you? I’d love to taste you. I’d love to suck and suck and suck . . ._

_Yes. Faster._

Harry grinned widely. He straightened his glasses and put the tip of his quill in his mouth. What should he say? What would a bloke _want_ to hear? _Merlin, you’re big. So big and hard._

_. . . Continue . . ._

Harry laughed. The word was haughty, but the writing indicated it was done by a trembling hand. _I want you to come over, he wrote. I want to see you and touch you in person. I want to feel you slipping into my mouth, butting against the back of my throat. I want to swallow you whole. I want to lick you until your inhibitions burn away like embers and you_ take _me, right here on this sofa._

Nothing. Harry frowned, waiting. Finally he saw a scrap of paper between the cushions and he pounced on it. Harry’s brow furrowed as he looked at the parchment; there was nothing written on it. Then his mouth opened, rounded into an ‘oh.’ There was nothing _written,_ but there was something _splattered_ on it, and it wasn’t ink.

 _Jackpot?_ he guessed cheekily.

There was another long, trembling wait. _You’ve no idea. I’ve just made an utter mess of this fine old chair, I might add._

 _So you’ve a chair,_ Harry wrote back. _That could be fun. Me straddling you, and all._

 _The idea has merit,_ his pen pal admitted.

Harry sighed, looking fondly down at the scrap of paper through a pink haze of afterglow. _We should meet,_ he wrote.

 _And_ that _idea has_ no _merit._

_No, really! I think we’d get along like a house on fire! I—I really like you a lot, Harry admitted._

_You don’t even know me. Rest assured that if you did, you would not be pleased._

_I think I would._ Harry gave this some thought. His correspondent was right, though; how could he hope for a relationship based on anonymous letters? _If I tell you who I am, will you tell me your name? It’d be a start, anyway._

_. . . No. But you can certainly tell me your name, if you’ve such a burning desire. I must admit I’m curious, if nothing else._

Harry grinned. Wouldn’t his letter-lover be surprised? _I’m Harry Potter,_ he wrote with a flourish.

There was a long, stunned silence. _How_ dare _you? You’re a_ liar! The words might have been written with venom for how angry and poisonous they were.

Harry gulped in panic. _No, I_ am! _I really am! Meet me in person. Meet me in Hogsmeade! Meet me at the Three Broomsticks tomorrow at noon. I’ll show you. I’ll be there and I’ll show you! I promise!_

_I don’t believe you._

_Meet me,_ Harry begged. _Just give me a chance. I don’t care who you are or what you look like. You’ve made me feel great. You’ve let me get it all out, and that’s all I want—just someone to talk to, someone who appreciates me without the Boy Who Lived/Chosen One nonsense. Please? Just give me a chance._

Harry stared anxiously down at the sofa for a long time before the reply came. _I’ll think about it._

Harry smiled. _That’s all I ask._

oOoOoOo

“We have lovely pork pies—special today, Mr. Potter.”

“I think I’ll wait.” Harry grinned at the proprietor. “I’m meeting someone.”

“Right enough!” the owner tipped his hat cheerfully, heading back to the kitchen as Harry sipped his butterbeer.

What would his pen pal be like? He was a bit self-conscious about his looks, Harry could tell, but did that mean he was ugly? Did it really matter? Harry thought hard; if the man he’d written to were short and fat and bald, would it make a difference? _A bit,_ he admitted to himself, _but not a huge difference. Not when he was so clever._ Clever, Harry thought, was dead sexy.

Harry tilted his chair back, his feet on the table. It was a minute past noon—the man should be there any moment. Would Harry’s anonymous correspondent find _him_ sexy? Well, he was Harry Potter, and fame and power were supposed to be powerful aphrodisiacs, right? But then again, the man hadn’t reacted very positively to the news. It wasn’t just shock; there was real antipathy there.

Five minutes past. Harry squirmed.

But perhaps the antipathy was just because the man thought Harry a liar. That made perfect sense! Who wanted a liar, anyway? And once whoever-it-was realized it really was Harry, he’d probably be apologetic. Harry might be impulsive and a bit dense sometimes, but he was really honest!

Harry looked at the clock again. Eight after twelve. Clock was probably fast. He took a swig of his butterbeer, and then another. What if the man came in when Harry had the bottle of butterbeer tilted back? He might not be able to see Harry’s face! Harry carefully set the bottle on the table.

The guy was smart—and sexy. And domineering, which Harry had always found rather annoying in Ginny. Who knew? Now he could explore his submissive side in a more permissive environment. The thought made him feel warm all over.

Twelve after twelve. The bloke apparently liked to be fashionably late. He was sort of snarky, so that fit. Harry could picture him, swanning in wearing a sneer and a lot of black—or perhaps a long, fluttery cloak. Yes, that fit. Something he could shrug back and know it would fan out behind him like flames as he walked. He’d be gay as anything, but in a shoot-you-down-first, find-out-if-you’re-interested-later sort of way. Harry could hardly wait.

What would he look like? Would he be as ugly as he thought himself to be? Probably not. He was probably short. A lot of gay men had complexes about that sort of thing, he thought. He was almost sure he’d heard that somewhere. He was probably reasonably attractive, anyway. And if he could kiss like he could write, it’d be worth it!

Harry glanced at the clock, then pulled out his watch and frowned. Forty minutes? Forty minutes was kind of long. He’d have to complain. Maybe sulk. Sulking might be fun if the bloke actually gave a damn. Ginny always got angry. He should try sulking. He made faces at his reflection in his silverware, ignoring the odd looks from the other customers.

“Another butterbeer, Mr. Potter?”

Harry looked up. “Maybe a firewhisky,” he suggested.

Three firewhiskies and two hours later, Harry was finally convinced.

His anonymous correspondent wasn’t coming. Harry smiled ruefully as he sipped the rest of his whisky, but he found it hard to swallow past the lump in his throat. He’d only had sex with the man once—sort of. It was unfair. _Perhaps once was enough,_ he reflected sadly.

“One more?” the proprietor asked hopefully as Harry got up and went to get his cloak.

Harry offered the man a crooked smile. “No, thanks,” he mumbled. “I know when to give up.”

That night he wrote several letters, none of which were answered. He read the last round of correspondence over and over again, looking for some clue to what had gone wrong, but he couldn’t find anything. Finally he fell asleep, curled up on the couch with a piece of parchment still clutched to his chest.

oOoOoOo

_I missed you. I know it didn’t mean anything to you, but you could have at least said you wouldn’t be able to make it. Or something, Harry scribbled. I thought . . . okay, I know it was stupid to think it was special to you. Or that I could be special to you. But I still wish—never mind._ Harry stuffed the paper between the couch cushions, knowing he probably wouldn’t get a response.

He wasn’t disappointed.

Well, he _was._ He was dreadfully disappointed and hurt. He told himself over and over that he shouldn’t be. It was just a one-night-stand. Everyone did it. Well, so far everyone except Harry Potter had done it, and now he had joined their ranks, that was all. It was stupid of him to let himself get so vulnerable to some woodpulp, liquid colour and—and sweet words. Okay, perhaps sweet was an exaggeration. _Still._

He checked the sofa a couple of times a day, but his mysterious suitor was implacable. Harry was thoroughly depressed and, if it came down to admitting it, lonely. Now that school was starting up again he wouldn’t even see the kids once a week. He’d thought coming out of the closet would be, well, if not easy, then . . . fun. He’d thought he’d finally be allowed his own social life, lovers and friends. But he just didn’t have the courage to try a club or something, especially not when he’d been rejected by the first person he’d ever slept with. So to speak, anyhow.

Several days later Harry was still sulking as he lounged on the sofa and alternated between reading a magazine and staring out the window, when Ron’s head suddenly popped through the fireplace. “Hey, mate!” Ron said.

“Hey,” Harry replied, managing a crooked smile.

“Got time for lunch? I’m on a break.”

“Sure,” Harry told him. “I’ve got this great Italian soup and stuff for sandwiches.”

“That’ll hit the spot,” Ron said, coming into the room and dusting himself off. They ate in the kitchen.

“So,” Ron said as Harry buttered his bread. “Are you still getting mad letters from your couch?”

“No,” Harry answered resentfully. He glanced away. “Apparently he was never really interested in me in the first place,” he added in a mutter.

Ron looked concerned. “Er . . . it's a ‘he’?”

“Yes, I am sure about that,” Harry answered, still feeling distracted. “He told me he was gay.”

“Your _couch_ is a _homosexual?”_ Ron squawked. “How did it ever find out? Was it more effeminate than the other sofas growing up? Did it like fancy silk upholstery better?”

Harry laughed. “No, I mean . . . I found out the letters were coming from a gay man. Not the couch. It’s kind of complicated.”

“Ah.” Ron shifted in his seat. “And he wasn’t interested in you? Or you weren’t interested in, er, _that,_ and that’s why you’re not writing anymore? You didn’t—get angry because he was gay, did you?”

Flushing, Harry pushed the crumbs around on his plate with his spoon. “I—I didn’t care that he was homosexual,” Harry said slowly.

“That’s good. You’re not usually a berk about little things like that,” Ron said with what Harry felt was unusual kindness and perspicacity.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“But anyway, he doesn’t write me anymore, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Did you have an argument?”

“No. At least, I don’t think we did,” Harry said honestly.

“You don’t _know?_ Scratch that, I’ve been in enough fights with Hermione without really knowing how it happened. What’s his name?”

“Don’t know.”

“You don’t even know _that?_ Where does he live?”

Harry shrugged helplessly. “Probably not between my couch cushions or in another dimension, because I did a _bit_ of research. Beyond that, no clue.”

Ron sighed. “You should ask Hermione.”

Harry grinned. When in doubt, ask Hermione. “Yeah?”

“She’s volunteering at St. Mungo’s today. She goes every Friday afternoon, regular. Stop in and see her,” he suggested.

“That’s a good idea,” Harry said, feeling a lot more cheerful about things. He had practically told Ron he was gay, and Ron was okay with it. He’d been really worried about that particular revelation. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go see Hermione.”

Ron slapped him on the back. “Good. I’m heading back to the office. Good luck!”

oOoOoOo

A trainee-Healer led Harry to the Cecil Costermonger ward on level two of St. Mungo’s. Hermione and Neville Longbottom were both there; Neville was squatting beside a young boy’s bed and holding a potted baloobab plant, which was twisting itself into animal shapes as the boy laughed.

“Hullo, Harry,” Neville said, looking up with a grin as Hermione gave Harry a hug.

Harry felt hot shame pour right down to his toes. While he was pouting and pining, Hermione and Neville had been volunteering and doing good deeds. “What’s this ward for?” he asked Hermione quietly.

“It’s for children with chronic conditions. Neville and I like to help out because the kids are so wonderful and it’s _such_ a bore for them to be stuck here, sometimes for weeks at a time until they’ve recovered completely.”

“Are you _Harry Potter?”_ the boy in the bed asked, agog. “Would you sign my—my—” He looked down at the sheets, which belonged to the hospital, and the gown, and over at the empty side table, and—

“Here,” Harry said quickly, conjuring a Muggle t-shirt and writing his name on it in a large red scrawl. “How’s that?”

“Oh, _wow!”_

Grinning, Harry followed when Hermione motioned him out into the corridor, Neville trailing behind and putting his plant (now a giraffe) by the boy’s bedside.

“Harry, Ron told me your couch has been . . . temperamental,” Hermione said.

“Not exactly.”

Neville patted him on the back. “Never mind. I went through the same thing last year when my gladioli got depressed. I kept _telling_ them that spring was just around the corner, but they did not want to hear it.”

Interested in spite of himself, Harry pushed his glasses back up his nose. “What did you do?”

“Cheering Charms didn’t work, so I put Muggle medicine—Prozac—in their fertilizer.”

“Oh.”

“But if you didn’t want to go with drugs, and I can understand that—and after all, I’m not sure how you could get a drug into a sofa other than, er, the usual ways . . . you could cheer it up other ways,” Neville said helpfully.

“I could?”

“You could have it reupholstered. Everyone likes to look nice, right?”

Harry blinked a little. “Er. Yeah. I could try that.”

“Make it do a deformed rabbit!” an insistent voice yelled, and they looked round the door to see the boy shaking the baloobab.

“Oops. I’d better get back,” Neville said. “Good luck, Harry.”

“Thanks.” Harry turned to Hermione once Neville had gone. “It’s not really my couch that’s gone off,” he confessed. “It’s more me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I—I was writing to this bloke—through the couch. I would put a letter in and get a letter back. And I—I really liked him a lot,” Harry admitted, feeling his face turn pink. “He was smart and fun to talk to, but all of a sudden he hates me and I don’t know why. And I can’t find him. I don’t even know his name!” he added in kind of a wail.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stay calm. I’ve seen you face down monsters with nothing but a broomstick and a wand; don’t go to pieces over a little infatuation.”

Harry felt his face redden even further. “How could you tell?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Boys are such emotional simpletons!”

“But what do I _do?”_

She sighed, frowning as she thought. “You met him in your couch cushions?”

“So to speak.”

“Well, then the couch is the key. Where did you get it?”

“You remember; that antique shop in Diagon Alley. You said it would bring my flat a bit of class.”

“Oh, yes. Well, why don’t you back to the shop and find out who owned it last? Maybe your secret admirer recently went through hard times and had to sell off part of his furnishings.”

Harry felt himself light up. “Hermione, that’s _brilliant!_ And here I was just researching other dimensions and black holes in the sofa and such!”

Hermione laughed as Harry hugged her and ran out. “Just remember, Harry,” she called after him, “even if he doesn’t like you, there are plenty of other blokes who will. All right?”

Harry waved. “I’ll remember,” he promised. He would also try to remember what great friends he had—and to make more time for them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry buys a second-hand sofa and gets more than he _ever_ anticipated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=_auberginedream)[_auberginedream](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=_auberginedream) for [Longlivenmarry](http://community.livejournal.com/livelongnmarry/profile).

**Title:** The Loveseat ([Part I](http://the-con-cept.insanejournal.com/412851.html), [Part II](http://the-con-cept.insanejournal.com/413161.html))  
 **Rating:** NC-17   
**Pairing:** Snarry, mentions of one-sided, past Snape/Lucius, and a teeny bit of Harry/Draco.  
 **Highlight for Warnings:** * Oral sex, public sex, dirty talk mentioning B&D, and a little quill-play. *  
 **Disclaimer:** Belongs to J.K. Rowling.  
 **Notes:** Written for for [Longlivenmarry](http://community.livejournal.com/livelongnmarry/profile).   
**Illustration by:**   
**Word Count** : ~17,000  
 **Betas and Builders:** Much thanks to for the inspiration, hand-holding and edits, as well as the help from , and and .   
**Summary:** Harry buys a second-hand sofa and gets more than he _ever_ anticipated.

oOoOoOo

Harry sat numbly, a piece of parchment, his quill and a bottle of ink in front of him. He knew he should write _something,_ but he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to _think._

“Things could be worse,” he said aloud, but he didn’t believe it. “Yeah, how? Worse than this? Really?”

Harry gave the thought serious consideration. “I guess Slughorn would be worse. Or one of the other Death Eaters. But this _is_ a Death Eater. I mean, he _was_ a Death Eater.”

Harry tried to sip his scotch but his hands trembled and anyway, he felt off-balance enough. He set the glass down and sat back. 

He’d gone to the antique shop that afternoon. They didn’t make a policy of revealing who their customers were, not as a general rule, but Harry was Harry and everyone made exceptions for Harry. So the old man had gone into the back room and brought back a ledger and had gone through it slowly, line by line, his papery fingers crawling down the page, following the writing like a spider.

Finally the man looked up with a broad smile, the weak light in the shop glinting off his dentures. “Found it! See, it were bought from an estate sale. Note says it were part of a set once, but no one knew what happened to the rest of it. The son, he didn’t want it, seein’ as how the rest of the set were gone. Weren’t worth so much, see?”

“Whose was it? Whose was it?” Harry asked eagerly.

“Well, look for yourself,” the man said, turning the book around and pointing a shaky old finger. 

The dark ink read _Lucius Malfoy_ in clear script. And Lucius was dead. Which meant that it came from Draco. _Everything_ came from Draco, then. “No,” Harry said out loud, shaking his head. “No. It can’t be!”

“Aye,” the old man replied, still smiling happily and nodding his old bald head. “Right there, written down proper. Lucius Malfoy,” he said.

“Malfoy,” Harry repeated blankly.

And now here he was, curled up on the couch. He didn’t know what to do. He kept going over the previous correspondence in his mind. 

The writer was gay. Well, Draco was married, but up until recently Harry had been married too, so that didn’t signify. The writer drank too much. Harry supposed that was possible; he hadn’t seen Draco since King’s Cross last year and Draco was probably being discreet about his problem, at least for now. Draco used to have a crush on another man, but never said who. Could it have been Harry? But then why wouldn’t Draco have shown up after Harry’d revealed who he was? No. Because Draco would have been too embarrassed and he had an awful lot of pride. 

Harry got up and gathered what notes he could find and put them in order the best he could remember. Draco’d thought he was writing to someone evil in the earlier notes. That was plain. It was equally plain that he’d had an ardour for the man that bordered on fanaticism. 

Harry’s whole being seemed to be clanging like a bell. _Death Eater,_ it pealed. _Death Eater, Death Eater, Death Eater!_ They’d all been mad about Voldemort, hadn’t they? Bellatrix and all the rest. It was true Draco seemed afraid of him, but that didn’t stop him from admiring the man, deep down. That was really sick. 

_But wait a second,_ Harry thought. Draco had, if the letters were indeed from Draco, mentioned a funeral and a wife! Voldemort hadn’t had either! Harry felt the tension drain from his body, relief flooding out to his fingertips. That was good. Unless Draco was being metaphorical or something, but Harry didn’t think so. So who had Draco’s crush been? And did it really matter?

Harry set the whole matter aside. It really wasn’t any of his business. Poor Draco didn’t know Harry would read those things. The other things, though . . . they had definitely been a surprise. To find that Draco was some sort of power-top and had next to no self-esteem—Harry never would have expected that. Still, he supposed everyone hid things about themselves. 

Anyway, the big mystery was solved; Harry’s paramour by print was none other than Draco Malfoy. The question was, what was he going to do about it?

oOoOoOo

Harry banged on the door. When the fat-as-butter butler answered ( _A butler!?_ Harry thought. _Did I really wank in tandem with a guy who has a_ butler?) he gave Harry a Look. “Did you not notice the doorbell, sir?” he asked coldly.

Harry glanced around. “No, sorry. There’s an awful lot of door and frame around it,” he explained apologetically. “Is Draco here?”

The man seemed to shudder a little, his puffy jowls quivering. “Mr. Malfoy is in the conservatory.”

“I need to see him.”

“You will wait in the foyer,” the man instructed.

_Wow. Shut me down at the door,_ Harry thought. _Probably doesn’t want me walking through the house getting the carpets dirty._ He sat in a posh armchair and rubbed his hands together nervously as he waited.

“Potter?” 

“Hey. Where’s, er, your wife?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “She is visiting her sister today.”

“Really?” Perhaps that was code for ‘living apart’ in rich people’s terms. “Oh.”

Harry had rarely seen his boyhood rival so plainly at a loss. “Did you . . . need something?” Draco asked, his voice thick with suspicion.

Harry stood, wiping his suddenly sweaty hands on his freshly-pressed trousers. Surely Draco realised that Harry knew? But he didn’t seem to realise. Harry searched Draco’s face, looking for that spark of recognition. Draco was an awfully good actor; Harry wouldn’t have guessed Draco knew anything at all. He looked into Draco’s eyes, searching for the burning intelligence, the scathing wit, the hot, domineering fire Harry had seen in his letters.

Draco looked nervous. “What on earth’s the matter with you? Have I got something in my eye?”

“No,” Harry said, disappointed. But maybe you just couldn’t tell by the outside! “You should never judge a book by its cover,” he muttered.

“I’m surprised you do more than look at the illustrations,” Draco replied scathingly, despite the strange tangent. 

Harry smiled. Maybe that was it. You couldn’t tell just by looking, right? Perhaps beneath that pointy, boring exterior lurked the heart of a ferocious, sensual animal! There was really only one way to tell if Draco was the one he was after.

Harry launched himself, pushing Draco back until the backs of his legs hit the sofa and he sat down hard. Harry straddled him, pinning Draco’s hands above his head and lustily dipping the tip of his tongue into Draco’s mouth, kissing him thoroughly.

“Potter!” Draco said, sounding shocked and not-at-all pleased when Harry finally pulled back. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Harry said. “I forgot you like to top. You’ll have to forgive me. You just don’t _seem_ like a top. On the outside, you know,” he added. “Look, let’s try it again, shall we? It seems like something’s off.”

Harry attempted to kiss Draco again, and Draco hauled off and punched him in the nose. “GET OFF OF ME, YOU VICIOUS, DEVIANT ANIMAL!”

Harry was rocked back on his heels, holding one hand over his bloody nose. “Merlin, I didn’t know you were a _sadist_ ,” he said, aghast.

“I’M PERFECT NORMAL, THANK YOU!” Draco sat up, smoothing his hair and looking warily at Harry. “You were the one who went and tried to stick your tongue down my throat. Frankly I think a bloody nose is the least of your worries; you just wait until I sue you in court!”

“Draco, this whole playing coy thing has gone far enough. Though I _did_ think you’d be a better kisser than all that,” Harry said speculatively. “I know who you are. I know you’re the one who’s been sending the letters. And I know you were the one who said all those dirty things.”

“Potter, you have categorically _lost_ your freaking _mind_.”

Harry sat up very straight in surprise. “You mean you really _haven’t?_ ”

“I think I would remember making sexual overtures to a mutant like _you.”_

“But you didn’t know it was me. Are you sure it wasn’t you? You could have forgotten; you’ve been hitting the bottle _awfully_ hard lately.”

“I most certainly have not! Slander!”

Harry sank down as though someone was draining the air out of him. “But then who’s been writing me? They’ve been using your father’s old sofa, sending me letters.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It could have been _any_ of his old colleagues. It was how he kept in touch with the other—with the others, during the wars. You know; Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Fenrir, Snape. All of them.”

“But they’re all imprisoned—or dead.”

“Maybe he or she is a revenant, cursed to haunt this earth and be tormented by Harry the Lunatic Potter.”

“I don’t know. He seemed real enough to me.” _Flesh and blood—hot blood,_ Harry added in his head.

Draco shrugged like he couldn’t care less. “Or they’re pretending. If it keeps you away, it’d be worth it.”

Harry glared at him. “Thanks for nothing,” he said as he took his leave. 

“Expect to hear from my lawyer!” Draco called after him.

oOoOoOo

Harry lounged on the sofa, unwilling to leave in case he got another note, but also unwilling to try again and be completely ignored. Who could the letters have come from? According to Draco, it had to be a Death Eater. The thought turned Harry’s stomach. He didn’t want to fall in love with someone evil, and all Death Eaters were somewhat evil. Except possibly Snape, who might have been pretending a little bit. But Snape was dead. And so was Fenrir. And hell, even the ones who weren’t dead were in Azkaban.

So who had written the letters?

Harry’s mind went in circles.

Had any of the Death Eaters been drunks? Harry didn’t think so. Still, it might be good to check. After all, he didn’t know any of them especially well. His eyes narrowed—but he did know one of them well enough.

“Draco Malfoy’s foyer!” he shouted as he knelt and popped his head through the Floo. Draco was in an armchair, scowling at a financial newspaper. “Oh, good, you’re right here,” Harry said, happy he wouldn’t even have to go looking.

Draco looked apoplectic. “ _Potter!?_ ” he exclaimed.

“Was Fenrir a drunk?”

“How the _hell_ did you get in here?”

“Was _Fenrir_ a _drunk?_ ” Harry repeated patiently.

Glowering, Draco folded his newspaper and set it aside. “As far as I recall, he did not drink . . . alcohol. He was more of the ‘blood of children fresh from the source’ type.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Thanks. What about the others? Did anyone else drink? Like, heavily?”

“What? No! Working for You Know Who might have inclined one to do so, but we were rarely given the opportunity and you could imagine what he’d say if he found out.”

“Crucio?” Harry guessed.

Draco nodded curtly. “Now tell me how the fuck you got in my Floo! I have about six wards, three alarms and fifteen magical blocks on it!”

“I jimmied it while I was waiting for your butler to get you last time. It actually wasn’t all that difficult.”

“ _What?_ ” Draco gasped.

“I’ve got to get back. Thanks—see you!” Harry cheerfully returned to his own flat, catching a last glimpse of a twitch going off under Draco’s left eye.

Harry looked back at the sofa with a frown. That hadn’t really got him anywhere. Whoever was writing him notes— _had_ written him notes, he amended sadly—had only started drinking heavily after the war. 

Harry went over and shuffled through them again, frowning. Then he got up and began to pace. He went over what he knew—or suspected—about his long-distance lover. The bloke was a heavy drinker. The bloke was mostly likely a former Death Eater. Gay. He’d once had a crush on someone, someone he thought beautiful, but he probably never told the object of his affections. He was lonely. He was really great in bed—or at least he was great at writing about it. He was kind of sarcastic and wonderfully domineering. 

Sighing, Harry felt his shoulders slump. None of this was enough—not enough to be worth making another huge leap in his assumptions like Harry’d done when he pounced on Malfoy. 

Harry sat down on the sofa and scratched his head. Come to think of it, Malfoy might still be useful. He went back to the Floo.

“Potter!” Draco exclaimed. There was a wizard in dark blue robes nearby, and he flourished his wand towards Harry, but Harry hexed first. “POTTER!” Draco roared. “You can’t come in here and hex my repairman!”

“Can and did,” Harry said shortly.

Draco groaned and sat down, rubbing his forehead.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Harry admonished, climbing through completely. “Were any of the Death Eaters homosexual?”

“It never came up,” Draco ground out.

“Hah ha,” Harry said obediently.

“What?”

“I thought you were making a pun.”

Draco groaned again. “We did not sit around consuming large amounts of Firewhisky and using the empty container for a round of ‘spin the bottle.’ We were Death Eaters, Potter. We mostly sat around feeling terrorized and then went out to spread the feeling about. Our discussions, such as they were, revolved completely around conquering the world or, more often, explaining why we hadn’t managed to do that yet. And sometimes screaming in horrible, horrible pain. There wasn’t any bonding in the trenches, if that’s what you’re going for.”

“Look, you couldn’t guess whether any of them were gay?”

“Potter! The subject never crossed my mind! For Merlin’s sake, when you’re watching Bellatrix eviscerate someone, you rarely pause to think whether she’d be a corker in bed!” 

He and Harry shared a flagrant shudder. “Right. Right. Well, thanks anyway. Later.”

“No later! There isn’t going to be a later!” Harry heard Draco protest as he slipped back through the flames.

Well, that was useless. 

Harry went into the kitchen and looked for something to eat. There wasn’t much in the cupboards; he’d been so depressed over his rejection that he hadn’t been shopping recently. Finally he found some crackers that weren’t stale and a jar of jam that still had a bit left in the bottom. 

He sat at the wobbly kitchen table, using his jam sparingly, getting crumbs all over the table as he considered his dilemma. Surely he was overlooking something. There had to be some clue. And Harry wasn’t giving up; the mysterious nature of the notes made him more determined than ever to track down his errant pen pal. Harry went and got the milk out and tried to drink it, but it had soured. He sighed and threw it in the bin.

Harry had to admit that if he’d just had a fling with some bloke he met in a pub, he probably wouldn’t be quite so stuck on him. But the added mystery made this man, whoever he was, completely irresistible. Could the man he was writing to possibly know that? Harry doubted it, but the thought was cheering.

He wiped the crumbs off the table, set his plate in the sink and turned the tap on. He watched the jam get carried down the drain in swirls, dark as ink. _Ink!_ he thought, excited. Perhaps he could trace the ink!

He ran back into the other room and looked at the letters again. They all had the same blue ink. Could, say, the Ministry tell him where it had come from? But then his heart sank. You could get ink in lots of places. You could even get it by mail. It’d probably be pretty easy to get that kind of thing anonymously, and how would that help?

Harry had been staring at the ink as he deliberated, and his eyes slowly focussed on something different. _What about the handwriting?_

Harry felt a prickle in his blood.

He’d seen this handwriting somewhere before!

The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he reached back and flattened it. _Calm down, calm down,_ he told himself. _No more jumping to conclusions!_

He looked at the notes from every angle, but this time he was sure. Even if the writing was a bit shakier than he remembered, it was still small and cramped and spiky. Harry was almost certain he knew this handwriting. But this time he wouldn’t make a fool of himself. This time he’d consider everything before he did _anything._ And then he’d be sure to get confirmation, as well.

Harry sat calmly on the couch for a few minutes, taking several deep breaths.

And then he snatched up a note, leapt to his feet with a whoop of joy and threw himself back into the Floo again.

Draco just missed him with a fireplace poker. “ _Damn,_ ” he snarled. His usually slick hair was mussed and his eyes were wild. “Potter, this is trespass!”

“No, it’s not,” Harry insisted innocently. “It’s just visiting an old friend.”

Draco swung the poker again, which Harry quickly sent spinning away with a spell. “I’m going to have you arrested.”

“And I’m going to tell people you invited me. Which one of us has a credibility issue?”

Draco grimaced. 

“Yes, thought so. Anyway, I didn’t come here for your charming banter. Look at this note,” Harry demanded, thrusting it in front of Draco’s nose. “Whose handwriting is this?”

Draco huffed and had to hold it further away, squinting. Apparently Harry wasn’t the only one who needed glasses these days. “It looks like Snape’s handwriting!” he said in surprise.

“Ha! _HA!_ I _knew_ it!” Harry exclaimed. He thumped Draco on the back, making Malfoy wince. “Thanks again!”

“That was assault! Battery, you bastard! DAMN YOU, POTTER, STAY AWAY FROM ME!” Draco howled after him as Harry jumped through the Floo again.

Harry ignored him. He finally knew who was writing to him. And despite the fact that Snape had been a miserable, greasy old bastard, Harry’s stomach had flipped with undeniable happiness at the news.

oOoOoOo

Harry was staring at a blank piece of parchment, as he’d done so many times over the past couple of weeks. He’d thought knowing whom he was writing to would make it easier, not harder. But Merlin, it was __Snape. What was he supposed to say to _Snape,_ of all people? He half-wanted to start with _Thanks for standing me up, you colossal prick; you’re just as big a bastard as you were back at school! I hope you get your head stuck in a toilet and die that way!_

But he wouldn’t have meant it, was the problem. He was definitely angry at being stood up, but he wanted Snape now, full stop. 

How the hell could he come on to Snape, _knowing_ he was coming on to Snape? The man was like a . . . Harry didn’t know for sure. Some kind of animal that, when you tried to cosy up and put your arm around it, promptly bit your arm off. Or your head. Or possibly both. Harry sighed, pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes.

Despite everything—the age difference, the past torment, the fact that Snape was as predictable and pleasant as a stock market crash—Harry actually admired the man. And he wanted more. One night of wanking was nice, but he hadn’t even known who to picture at the time. It was really frustrating. 

And now Snape was avoiding him, the git. 

Harry could understand why, though. For starters, they’d hated each other. Finding out the bloke he’d masturbated with was the student who’d driven him straight up the wall as a kid was probably not great for the libido. Plus, Snape had never really been cleared—not the way he deserved. And there would always be people who hated him or blamed him for certain events in the war. It was probably safer and less difficult underground. Still, he did deserve better, and Harry wanted to make certain he got it.

He just didn’t know where to start. 

Did he tip his hand? No, not right away. He should only let Snape know he knew the truth if Harry was sure it would do some good. 

Eventually, Harry came up with a plan. Snape was lonely, right? Snape had enjoyed their . . . time together. Harry just had to _convince him_ that this would still work. And what better way than to give the man what he needed—love, admiration, and attention?

Harry rubbed his hands together and began to write.

_I want you. We belong together—you know that, don’t you? I wish I could be there with you right now, holding you. I wish when I woke in the middle of the night I’d find you by my side. I wish I could watch you sleep, twining a lock of your hair round my finger. I wish I could touch you softly in the starlight. I wish I could press featherlight kisses to your sleeping eyes, your cheeks, your mouth._

Harry sat expectantly for several minutes, but there was no response. There wasn’t even a _You make me want to retch until I vomit my socks up,_ which was sort of what Harry expected. Perhaps this meant Snape was rather enjoying it?

_I wish I could show you how I felt without words. I’d nuzzle against your neck, practically purring; I’d work my way down your body, patiently undoing buttons with my teeth; I’d suck on your fingertips, press my hot mouth in wordless submission against your foot._

Still nothing. Why the devil did Snape have to be so damned stubborn? He threw down his quill and got to his feet, circling the sofa and coffee table like a shark. What could he say to make Snape pay attention?

Well, Snape didn’t know Harry had discovered who he was, but Harry’s secret was already out. Snape knew exactly who’d been writing to him. Of course, that was a drawback; apparently Snape loathed Harry as much as he ever had—but couldn’t Harry find _some_ way of turning that to his advantage instead?

He sat down again and began to write.

_Maybe you don’t like me because I’m Harry Potter?_ he scribbled tentatively, as if probing a wound to see how bad the damage really was. _You wouldn’t be the first. Sometimes I’d give anything to be someone else. Some people think it’s really easy for me, but it isn’t—it never was. Since my parents died when I was so young, I was raised by my aunt and uncle, who hated me. It was really lonely growing up. And then when I finally found out about magic and arrived at Hogwarts, I discovered a madman wanted to kill me. Half the time people were afraid to get near me in case they’d become collateral damage. There weren’t many people who stood by me; mostly just Ron and Hermione, and even then Ron could be a bit of a berk sometimes. And there was always the headmaster. And Severus Snape,_ Harry added slyly. _Of course, I didn’t know he was on my side, really, until it was too late. Which was too bad. I’d love to tell him how much his sacrifice meant to me—and to everyone. Plus, he was actually kind of hot, in a dark and smouldering way. Did you ever meet him?_

Harry paused for effect. 

_Oh, right. I forgot you weren’t speaking to me. Anyway, like I said, he really was rather sexy. I can’t say I haven’t had my fantasies._

But this failed to provoke a reaction as well. Perhaps Harry would have done better if he’d cursed Snape’s name; the man always reacted more hotly to a perceived insult than anything else. 

_I never told anyone at school that I was, well, a bottom. Well, honestly, I didn’t really know. It took a long time for me to accept that I was attracted to blokes. And even when I finally got the courage to strike out on my own, I didn’t know where to start. Can you imagine? The papers would have a riot if I showed up at a gay club going, “I’m Harry Potter and I like to be ridden hard and put away wet, and incidentally I love being made to beg for it.” Can’t you just see the headlines?_

Was he getting _any_ reaction? Was Snape even reading Harry’s letters anymore, or was he just burning them as soon as they arrived?

_What would people say if they knew I liked to be spanked?_ Harry mused. _I think the general public would be horrified by my need to be dominated—to be pushed around and made to obey. I’ve trusted you with a very sensitive secret, you know._

That should have got at least a _Then you’re an_ idiot! from Snape, but nothing happened. Maybe he should turn the heat up a notch or two. 

_I can’t stop thinking about that night, and what we might have done. What_ more _we might have done, that is. I wish I could see your bed. I bet it’s the kind with no frills; just a blanket and pillows and some tall, strong bedposts. If you tied me to those bedposts, I bet I’d writhe and I’d squirm and I wouldn’t be able to get loose no matter what. I’d be completely at your mercy._

Harry pictured Snape’s dark eyes following his words, his hips shifting a little in his seat as he began to grow hard.

_You could do anything you liked to me. You could explore every inch of my body with your fingers, your mouth, even your cock. I’d like to feel your cock sliding over my skin, brushing against my collarbone, my nipple, the indentation where my leg meets my torso. Wouldn’t you like that? To rut against me while I whimpered and wriggled, desperate for more?_

Surely he couldn’t resist _this?_

_Maybe you’d like to untie me, force me onto my knees? Maybe you’d like it if I sucked you? You seemed to like it well enough last time. I’d bury my face in your clothes, breathing in deeply. I’d undo your trousers and hold you in my hand, hot and heavy. I’d slide my lips over your silken flesh and take you deep. I might need practice, but I’m sure you could teach me, couldn’t you? You don’t have to be_ nice _about it. You could grip my hair and thrust as hard as you like. You could boss me about. You could make me learn to pleasure you—your way._

Wouldn’t Snape like that? Why wouldn’t he respond?

_You could hold my head in place as you fucked me, or you could instruct me, making me do your bidding with just your sexy voice. And go down on you until you arched up, your heels drumming on the floor, until you came in my mouth. Wouldn’t you like that?_

Harry waited, watching the clock, for several minutes.

Nothing. _Nothing._ Harry ground his teeth. 

_Listen, you arrogant, stand-offish prick! You can’t treat me like this! The least you owe me is the courtesy of telling me why you didn’t show up when I invited you out! All you had to do was say no, you know!_ Harry scratched, writing so hard he ripped the paper at one point.

_Where are you? Why won’t you fucking answer me?_ Answer me, bastard! 

Harry shoved the note between the cushions, but of course Snape didn’t write back. 

_Was I just a convenient lay? Is that it? Just because you haven’t had any in a while you decide to take advantage of a desperate bloke and then make him feel like crap later? Does that make you feel big? Give you a charge, you selfish git?_

Again, Snape didn’t justify Harry’s raving with a response. 

Harry growled. 

_You piece of shit! You arse! You evil, rotten, stubborn goat-fucking prat! You can’t ignore me forever!_ I’M GOING TO GET YOU TO RESPOND EVEN IF I HAVE TO SIT HERE WRITING YOU NOTES ALL FUCKING NIGHT!

oOoOoOo

Several hours later, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” Harry snarled, unwilling to leave his letter-writing campaign for even a moment.

“Harry?”

“What?” Harry barely glanced up at Neville.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Harry didn’t have time for this.

“Er . . . it looks like you’re stuffing bits of paper between your couch cushions like they’re crisps. Harry, is your sofa still depressed? Eating doesn’t help, you know.”

“Neville, look, I’m just . . . busy,” Harry said evasively. 

“You want to talk about it?”

Reluctantly, Harry stopped for a minute. Anyway, his wrist hurt from all the scribbling. “There’s someone I like,” he said. “We . . . we had a one night stand. And now he’s avoiding me.”

Neville seemed supremely unsurprised to discover Harry was gay. “I’m sorry. You must be upset.”

Harry sighed. “I’m just sort of angry. I don’t like being ignored,” he confessed. “And I really thought this bloke was special.”

Neville smiled and sat down. “He must be, if you like him that much,” he assured Harry. “What is he like?”

Harry wriggled a little bit. _Dead_ and _former Death Eater_ were not descriptions that could persuade his friend to take him seriously. “He’s—he’s very intense,” Harry told him. “He’s kind of reclusive, but Merlin, he’s hot when he wants to be. He’s a bit sarcastic and he loses his temper sometimes but—he’s done great things. And I’m sure he’d really like me a lot if he gave me a chance.”

Neville shook his head. “I bet he’s the jealous type, too,” he sighed. 

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that he sounds like the jealous type. You know—intense, reclusive, loses his temper easily—that sort of thing.”

Harry blinked.

“Anyway, Hermione said you were having a tough time, so I brought you some optimistic orchids.”

“Some _what?”_

Neville held out the pot. “See, ‘cause their markings make them look like they’re smiling. And if you tickle them, they giggle.”

“Er, thanks Neville,” Harry said. That was all he needed; he had a couch that thought it was either a mailbox or an owl and a pot of flowers that laughed at him. If he hadn’t been part of the wizarding world for so long, Harry would have strongly suspected he was developing paranoid schizophrenia.

“No problem. Later, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, distracted.

The jealous type, huh? Well, nothing else had worked. It was worth trying. Feeling sly, Harry took up his quill one last time.

_Okay. I didn’t want to have to do this, because I know you obviously don’t want anyone to know about you. I tried to respect that, but I don’t like being ignored. And I’m sure that, if I confronted you in_ person, _I’d be able to get you to understand. I’m a very persuasive person. You might even say I can be seductive, if I want to be. So I’m going to be on your doorstep in fifteen minutes, and I_ know _you won’t be able to resist me. Before you know it, you’ll have me up in your bedroom and we’ll be going at it like animals._

_Fifteen minutes, Draco. See you at the Manor._

Harry stuffed the last note between the couch cushions, jumped up and ran for it.

oOoOoOo

Harry crouched in the bushes, panting. He didn’t want to alert Draco or his servants by Flooing in this time, so he’d had to Apparate onto the grounds and hide. He had a good view of the front door, but Harry was a bit worried that if Snape showed up he’d be able to tell where Harry was by his gasping breaths—or perhaps even his thundering heart.

Then, suddenly, there was someone striding up to the front door, and it was no longer an issue, because Harry was utterly breathless. 

Snape. He looked just like he used to, tall and dark and irritable, with flashing eyes and long, long steps that seemed to punish the ground just for being under his damned feet. He stormed right up to the door and began pounding a fist against it. 

Harry realised he was grinning like a complete lunatic. 

The butler answered the door and Snape started screaming at him right off—the same rich voice—shouting something about, _“Where is he, that little—”_ and then Harry vaulted over the bushes, made it to the front doorstep in about three strides, and leapt on Snape like a lion taking down a wildebeest.

Snape staggered back under Harry’s weight as Harry clung to him with arms and legs. “Potter?” he croaked.

“I knew it!” Harry crowed. “I knew you wanted me! I knew you wouldn’t let that slimy Malfoy get his hands on me!”

Snape looked affronted. “Nonsense. I merely came here out of concern for Draco’s well being—to warn him of his impending doom, of course.”

Harry beamed.

Snape scowled. Up close, Harry could see that he had more and deeper lines on his face, but he was patently the same Snape he used to be. “You look utterly demented. And I’ll have you know it’s thoroughly exhausting listening to you ramble for hours on end. Or read your rambling missives, at any rate.”

This failed to steal the smile from Harry’s lips. “I knew you were reading all my letters,” he said. 

Snape stared at him. “There is absolutely nothing I can say that would convince you that I’m not desperately in love with you at this point, is there?”

Face aching from his broad grin, Harry shook his head. “Nothing.”

Snape groaned. “Well, I suppose at this point there’s nothing else for it . . .”

“Yeah?”

Snape kissed him—hard. _Hard._ Their teeth clicked and Snape’s hand, which was clutching his arm, dug into Harry’s flesh in a bruising sort of way. Harry felt Snape’s tongue snake over his own, and Snape slammed him up against the door which had by this time—luckily—closed.

“Yes,” Harry gulped when they broke apart just long enough for air. Snape was panting and his eyes burned like charcoal. He gave Harry a thin smile before diving in for another fierce kiss. Snape’s mouth was hot, his lank hair brushing against Harry’s face.

“You know,” Snape finally gasped. “I’m going to wrench my back if you don’t get off me.”

“I’d rather just get off,” Harry mumbled, but allowed his legs to fall. Then he grinned. “The grass looks soft. Let’s try that.”

“Potter, I’m hardly some sort of crazed exhibitionist. I—” Snape grunted as Harry grabbed his hand and yanked him down the steps.

Harry flung himself down. “Come on. I know you aren’t half as dour and dull as you like to make people believe.”

“Oh, _thank you_.”

Harry undid his zip. “Sure you won’t join me?” he purred. Snape watched as Harry shimmied his trousers and underpants down his hips. Harry was, after being pinned between Snape and the exterior of Malfoy Manor, achingly hard. He gave Snape an enticing smile. “Just a bit?” he coaxed, giving his cock a tug. 

“Perhaps a few minutes outdoors would be within the realm of acceptable,” Snape said hoarsely. “Vitamin D and all that.” 

The next thing Harry knew, they were literally rolling around on Draco’s front lawn. Harry had his legs wrapped around Snape’s waist again—good god, the feel of Snape’s robes against his prick! It was all Harry could do to keep from coming right away. 

Snape nipped Harry’s neck, hard, and Harry dug his fingers into Snape’s back—which probably would have been more effective if Snape wasn’t wearing six layers of clothing.

“Oh, _Snape_ ,” Harry groaned, rutting. 

“Potter, you had better exhibit self-control,” Snape growled.

Harry didn’t.

“Potter! You’ve—you do realise semen shows up very noticeably on black robes?” Snape sighed, looking let down. “Though why I would have expected you to make any attempt to put your partner’s needs before your own—”

“I’m _sorry,_ ” Harry said sheepishly. “It’s just that you _growled_. And I haven’t done this before, all right? I got excited. We could definitely go again. And I could suck you until then; wouldn’t that be all right?”

Before Snape could answer there was an almighty bang and they both looked round, alarmed, to see the front door of the Manor had been slammed back to reveal a red-faced, unhinged Draco brandishing a broom at them in a shaking fist. A stream of incomprehensible obscenities poured from his mouth.

“Draco, calm down,” Harry said, trying to get behind Snape. “Wow, he’s _pissed._ What’s he yelling?”

“YOU DAMN HOMOSEXUALS, GET OFF MY LAWN!” Draco screamed.

“Uh-oh; he’s going for his wand,” Harry observed. “We should go. I’d hate to have to do something rash.”

“Yes,” Snape agreed. He arched a brow at Harry. “Your place or mine?”

Harry beamed again.

oOoOoOo

They Apparated back to Snape’s place, Harry’s arms circling the man’s waist. “I really am rather insulted that Draco chased me off his property,” Snape sniffed. “Me, of all people.”

Harry stifled a grin. “He’s had a trying day.”

“Home, sweet home, at any rate,” Snape intoned. It was a Spartan little flat with an assortment of unmatched furniture—much like Harry’s place. “Would you like a glass of scotch?”

Harry’s eyes lit up as they fell upon a chair with golden upholstery. “What I’d like is to be fucked clear into next week,” he said with a puckish smile.

Snape’s smile was rather more edge and evil and sensual sin. “It’s possible I could arrange that,” he replied. He took a seat in the chair and Harry reflected that he sat so regally that he made it seem a throne. Snape crossed one leg over the other and looked at Harry pensively, rubbing a finger over his jaw. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked, and Harry couldn’t tell if this was supposed to be a rhetorical question or foreplay.

“You might start by telling me why you stood me up,” Harry said, suddenly feeling stubborn.

Snape looked vaguely hunted. “You know perfectly well why I didn’t show myself.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I didn’t think you—I assumed you would not be pleased when you discovered my identity.” 

“Why?”

Snape gave Harry a _look._ “I once lobbed a jar of cockroaches directly at your head at something like one hundred and thirty-two kilometres an hour. You’re lucky you’re not _still_ digging shards of glass from between your eyeballs.”

Harry smiled crookedly. “I kind of deserved it that time. You thought I’d still be angry with you?”

“You _were_ rather famous for your tantrums—and your unrivalled loathing of me.”

“I could say the same,” Harry said, relenting enough to go and perch on Snape’s lap. “You mean you really thought I was going to reject you?”

“I thought, at best, there would be an ugly public scene,” Snape admitted. “I did go to the pub, you know. I wanted to see you. And you were very handsome,” he added quietly. “After that, I decided it would be for the best to end our tenuous correspondence.”

“I didn’t want to,” Harry pointed out, his jaw set.

“I am shocked and had no apprehension of the fact,” Snape replied dryly. 

Harry shrugged. “What can I say? I don’t give up easily.” He grinned and batted his eyes at Snape. “It’s one of the things you _like_ about me, right?”

“Hardly. What I _like_ about you is that you’re eminently willing to submit yourself to my sexual overtures and you’ve a mouth like the most shameless whore. Or the penmanship of the most shameless whore. Though it’s difficult to imagine which would be sloppier in the end. Your penmanship _is_ sloppy; have I found an intriguing correlation, perhaps?” His smile turned wicked as Harry flushed. “At any rate, I admit you wrote some wonderfully filthy things, and I find graphic graphics most arousing.”

Laughing, Harry put his arms around Snape’s neck. “You gave as good as you got,” he assured the man. He kissed Snape, who kissed him back. “Chair sex?” Harry suggested hopefully.

“Oh, you’ve recovered from your little indiscreet bout of premature ejaculation—your boner that wasn’t, if you would?”

“ _Snape,_ ” Harry moaned, burying his burning face in his hands. “I hardly make a _habit_ of it, you know. You could stop harping.”

“It’s called ammunition,” Snape replied smugly. “I caution you that I have a tendency to acquire it.”

“Yeah, if you’re going to go talking all sexy in my ear, I imagine you would,” Harry told him. “Risk I’m willing to take.”

“Feckless Gryffindor fool,” Snape said, but he sounded pleased. “You really think you’re ready?” His long, elegant fingers slipped down to Harry’s lap, deftly tracing the outline of Harry’s rapidly-stiffening prick in his trousers. 

Harry swallowed hard. “Ready, willing, and eager,” he said. 

Snape smiled. “Lovely. Up on your knees,” he ordered.

Confused, Harry looked down at the chair and up at Snape’s face again. “Er, don’t you mean ‘down on your knees?’” he questioned. 

“Manifestly not.” Snape tapped his long fingers against the armchair’s, well, arms. “ _Up_ on your knees,” he repeated.

Still puzzled, Harry clambered up to find his crotch was nearly level with Snape’s face, if Harry did things right. “Oh,” he said.

“ _Indeed,_ ” Snape purred. 

Harry found he liked Snape purring almost as much as he liked Snape growling, and allowed the man to unzip him. 

“Um,” Harry said, as Snape slowly pulled him out. “Wait a second; I can’t exactly, er, you know. Do anything to please _you?_ ”

Snape gave him a lazy smirk. “Patience is a virtue and virtue is its own reward—supposedly. I’ve never seen the proof, personally. But rest assured that you will do your part in good time.” 

Harry’s eyes slammed shut as Snape took Harry into his mouth. God—so hot! And wet! “Gngh!” Harry grunted, his spine fused solid as he resisted the urge to thrust. 

Snape went slowly—almost too slowly—licking from the base of Harry’s cock up to the head, then taking him down, down, down. Finally his hands clamped down on Harry’s hips, directing Harry’s body. Harry was pumped in and out of Snape’s mouth, trying not to whimper. 

Snape motioned with one hand, and Harry’s clothes were ripped from his body, shredding themselves and falling into a messy heap on the floor by Snape’s feet.

“It’ssogoodsogoodgood _good_ ,” Harry gasped. One of Snape’s hands was clenched on his bum, kneading the flesh there. 

Snape picked up speed, rocking Harry back and forth until Harry could hardly stand it. Harry could feel prickles of sweat forming on his brow, his breath coming too fast and unsteady. Finally one of Snape’s hands slipped between Harry’s cheeks, a fingertip pressing against Harry’s entrance. 

Harry wanted to come— _had_ to come—but it hadn’t been that long since the last time, and he was able to clench his teeth and blank out his mind just long enough to calm down.

“A bit much?” Snape said with amusement, drawing off.

“In a good way,” Harry rasped. Something else pressed against Harry’s pucker. “What’s that?” he asked in alarm.

“My wand. Don’t worry; you shan’t lose a buttock,” Snape told him wryly. Harry caught his breath as it slid up inside him, oozing something warm and slick. Snape kissed his chin. “Lovely,” he murmured at Harry’s stunned expression.

“I—like it,” Harry admitted. 

Snape slipped the wand deeper inside of Harry, then out, then in again, slowly. “More?” he queried.

Not trusting his voice, Harry nodded.

The wand was removed to be replaced by an elegant, questing finger. “You’re deliciously tight,” Snape remarked. “Now you’re going to need to spread your legs a bit more.”

Harry flushed. “Um.”

“It’s easy enough,” Snape said with a glitter in his eye suggesting the position wasn’t the only thing he found easy. “Put your legs over the arms of the chair, and gravity will do the rest.”

Harry had some _serious doubt_ about that, especially considering the size of Snape’s prick when he pulled it out. Still, Snape was gentle enough as he lowered Harry onto his cock, his face tightening a little in pleasure at the squeezing warmth of Harry’s body. 

With Snape doing most of the work, Harry began to ride the man, hands on Snape’s shoulders. There was a slight sting, but Merlin it felt good, too. Snape’s dark eyes were slits, his teeth set together as he lifted Harry, then lowered him, building a slick rhythm.

“Pain?” Snape grunted.

“No. Not much,” Harry told him.

“ _Good_.” 

Now Snape was lifting _his_ hips, thrusting up into Harry, lifting Harry only slightly before slamming him down again. Harry cried out—Snape was pumping faster and faster, jolting him. 

Harry babbled, probably much worse than he had on paper and _certainly_ louder, but Snape didn’t seem to mind. The man’s eyes blazed as he watched Harry, studying his writhing body closely. Harry felt exposed and _wonderful_. Shaking, Harry rested his head briefly on Snape’s shoulder, panting as the man ground him down. “Fuck me, oh, _fuck me,_ ” he begged.

“You like that, don’t you?” Snape murmured in his ear. “So much more substantial than a quill, isn’t it?”

Harry gave a soft wail and came, splattering come once more over Snape’s still half-buttoned robes. 

“You are messy,” Snape growled, bouncing Harry again and again. Suddenly he went still, his eyes slamming shut, and Harry felt a spasm of warmth deep inside.

“Oh!” he gasped. He leaned his forehead against Snape’s. “That was . . . yeah. That was better than anything you get in a letter,” he said weakly. 

“Yes. But I’m glad you wrote me, in any case.”

“You wrote me first,” Harry pointed out.

“I most certainly did not!”

“Well, you might have thought you were writing to Lucius, but you were actually writing to me.”

“You sent the first letter!” Snape insisted.

“No—remember? You told Lucius he was attractive, but that you were too different or something.”

Snape paled. “I never sent that letter.”

“Apparently you did. Or your chair did.”

The man scowled. “I always suspected it had an agenda of its own.”

Harry laughed. “It’s pining for the sofa. Get it? Pine? Anyway . . . if we put them both back together maybe they’ll stop trying to drive us mad.”

“Only you would want to play matchmaker for furniture.”

“Why not? They did for us.” Harry got up to go and get cleaned off.

“And what happens when the ottoman gets involved? Some sort of outlandish threesome?”

“Could be. _Is_ there an ottoman?”

“I believe Draco kept it—just a small reminder of his father.”

“Really?” 

Snape gave Harry a suspicious look. “I don’t _even_ want to know.”

Harry merely grinned.

oOoOoOo

A couple of months later, when they finally found a flat amenable to them both, Harry and Snape moved their furniture in. “I don’t like the way your sofa looks at me,” Snape remarked, scowling at the thing. “It leers. Don’t ask me how a sofa can leer, but yours does.”

“So do you,” Harry countered.

“Only when you’re wearing your silk boxers,” Snape pointed out, lips set in the way they got when he was trying not to smile. 

Harry lifted his shoulders philosophically. “I’ve tried talking with it about its attitude and how it needs to behave, but I’m afraid it’s kind of obstinate. But doesn’t it look cute with your chair? They match.”

“They’re part of a set, Potter. Stop getting stupidly sentimental about the furnishings.”

Harry smiled. “No, really. I think they missed each other. Now all we need is a kinky sideboard and we’ll be all set.”

Snape groaned. “I thought your back was still sore from last week when I had you atop the coffee table,” he began, but Harry was saved having to admit this when there was a knock at the door.

Hermione smiled at them. “I’ve brought you a lovely bottle of wine as a housewarming gift,” she said.

“Thank you,” Snape said gravely.

“Did you hear Draco Malfoy checked into St. Mungo’s a couple of weeks ago?” she asked as Snape poured them each a small glass of chardonnay.

Harry blinked. “It’s not serious, is it?”

“No. The Healers said he’s suffering from some sort of mild nervous breakdown,” Hermione informed him. “It’s very odd. Apparently he’s been having delusions that you keep breaking into his house. His wife brought him in after she found him shredding bits of parchment and babbling incoherently except for your name; it seems he insists you’re haunting his ottoman.”

Harry laughed as Snape gave him a disapproving, yet amused look. 

“Potter, please tell me you haven’t been driving Draco round the bend—literally,” the man said, scowling at Harry through narrowed eyes.

“Not on purpose,” Harry promised. To Hermione he added, “Never mind. I’m sure Draco will be fine in no time. And in the meanwhile, why don’t you take him these flowers for me? They’re optimistic orchids, and they’re just the thing for when you’re a bit down.”

Hermione smiled. “It’s so nice that you’re able to be kind to him,” she said. “After all the fighting you did back at school.”

“Bless your little cotton socks,” Snape added, voice dryer than a vermouth-free martini.

Harry hid a grin. “Yeah, well. I owe him a little something, at any rate,” he said, giving Snape a wink.

When Hermione left, Harry tried to sidle out of the room as well, but Snape grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back. “Potter, what have you been doing to Draco?”

“Nothing!”

“ _Potter_ ,” Snape growled in a warning tone.

“I was only being _nice_ ,” Harry replied innocently.

“By doing what, exactly?”

“I—just sent him a letter. Through the ottoman. Just one measly little letter,” Harry protested.

Snape crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot. “And might you have a copy of the _contents_ of this oh-so-innocent letter?”

Harry smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do. I had lots of copies printed, you see.” Harry went over to a desk and pulled out a thick stack of cream-coloured envelopes. He handed one to Snape. 

Harry watched the man rip one open and turn white as he read _You are cordially invited to the wedding of Severus Snape and Harry James Potter . . ._

Snape made a horrified face and danced about on one leg, flinching as though he’d seen an enormous, disgustingly hairy spider. “ _Wedding!?_ ” he croaked. “You didn’t—you sent one of these to _Draco?_ No wonder he had a collapse! I’m ready to do the same! “ 

Harry laughed, accustomed to Snape’s insatiable need for drama. “Don’t be a big baby,” he replied. “Sure, I sent one to Draco. Just a bit early,” he added hopefully.

“Eons early!” Snape replied. “The time it would take for a new species to evolve, master its niche, become the greatest predator ever known and then be wiped out in an instant by some catastrophe improbably not instigated by _you_ —that is how long it would take for the two of us to become acclimated enough to each other to consider marriage!”

“The announcement might have come, in fact, a few days early,” Harry negotiated. “But we’ve been together two months and we actually get along really well, and your return to the wizarding world has been pretty smooth. And you can’t pretend you don’t like me; you even made me breakfast in bed last Saturday.” He gave Snape his most stubborn look, planting his fists on his hips, chin jutting out.

“I had extra eggs and you refused to get up! Anyway, this is centuries early!”

“A few _weeks_ early, perhaps.”

“Years early!” Snape countered desperately. He crumpled the invitations in two commitment-phobic fists. “Yeeeeears early,” he moaned, drawing out the syllable.

Harry kissed him. “A couple of months early?” He batted his eyes in a way he knew certain ex-potions masters found completely irresistible.

“ _Twelve_ months?” said Snape, obviously softening.

“Will it _really_ take you that long to get used to the idea?”

“Eleven months?”

“Three,” Harry said.

“Ten!”

“Four.”

“Nine?” Now Snape sounded resigned, but not disappointed or unduly unhappy. Harry knew he’d won.

“Six,” he replied firmly.

Snape looked at him for what seemed like a long time. “Six,” he agreed.

Harry threw his arms around the man. “That’ll make for a nice spring wedding,” he said. He nuzzled against Snape’s neck and added, “What shall we put on the gift registry?”

It took a few moments for the man to relax enough, but finally Snape allowed himself to stroke Harry’s head. He eyed the conniving couch and scheming chair, muttering about how things could only be worse if they were on the loose, especially if certain things were left in the hands of certain blonds who happened to be completely mental.

“What?” Harry said, drawing back in puzzlement.

Snape forced a smile and kissed Harry deeply. “I said,” he replied, “that I think we should request an ottoman.”


End file.
